


Snagged With Bright Wrappers

by voleuse



Category: Farscape
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-22
Updated: 2006-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-04 07:32:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Here's a booth where you can win</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snagged With Bright Wrappers

**Author's Note:**

> Mid-S2. Title, summary, and headings adapted from Dean Young's _The Invention of Heaven_.

_i. the mind becomes a field_

They're halfway prepped to go down to the planet's surface when Pilot's voice emerges from the comms, scratchy with static.

John shoots a glance at Aeryn, and she shrugs. "Pilot, can you repeat?"

"We've intercepted a Peacekeeper transmission being broadcast on the planet," Pilot says. "There's mention of a significant bounty for capture of two Sebaceans."

"Bounty, huh?" John would allow for the details Pilot's omitting, but he's curious. "How much?"

At Pilot's citation of the number, John whistles.

Aeryn raises an eyebrow. "Tempted to turn yourself in?"

"I would suggest," Pilot cuts in, "you stay on Moya, to prevent being recognized."

John leans his hip against a console. "What do you say, Aeryn?"

For a second, he could swear she looks cranky, then her brow is smooth again.

"You know how D'Argo gets when we run out of fellip juice," she remarks.

For a second, John can taste the sweet, acrid pop of the liquid on his tongue, and see the rain drizzling onto Aeryn's skin.

He slaps his hand onto the console and grins wide. "So let's go."

_ii. the snow melts and dandelions blink on_

Given the circumstances, Aeryn mutters something about additional weaponry and disappears for a while.

In the meantime, John returns to his quarters, straps into his leather and weapons. Sure, he looks more like a Peacekeeper this way, but he's also less likely to die from a stab wound. Besides, he's never been averse to dressing like the company he keeps, and when he imagines Aeryn strapping a gun to her thigh, he shuts his eyes, shakes his head to chase the image away.

"Think you can get into her pants that way?" Chiana croons from the doorway.

He turns his head and watches as she swings into the room, hand clutching the swirled bars of the door. She sways closer, runs a finger over the outline of his gun. "She _does_ like weapons."

John rolls his eyes. "Not the point," he replies. "This time, anyway."

"Then what is?" Chiana asks.

He tries to think of an answer, but he can't.

Chiana laughs, and then Aeryn appears in the corridor. She checks the pulse chamber of the gun in her hands, then looks at John.

"Ready?"

_iii. you can walk through them_

Kheri Ran is a busy planet, and they land without much interference. Once they're parked, they get lost within the shuffle of consumers. The crowd is a syncopated flow of sale and barter, hiccupping around merchant's stalls, shadowed eateries, and the occasional interspecies frelling.

Aliens of all stripes are pressing close, brushing against his sleeves. John quells the urge to slide an arm around Aeryn's shoulders as they walk. She raises her eyebrows at him as they walk, as if she overheard his impulse.

He smiles at her, and when her eyes flick down to his mouth, he thinks the risk of capture is worth this one moment.

_iv. plastered with dew_

He's been in the Uncharted Territories for how many months--he tries not to enumerate, very much--and there are still things he's never seen, never tasted.

At one stall, he stops to poke at a heap of jade-colored fruits, their hides streaked with gold. Over his shoulder, Aeryn hands the proprietor a credit, picks up one of the uneven orbs. At his questioning glance, she slices it open with her knife and offers him a segment of the fruit.

He takes it in his mouth, and it's tart, like a lime on steroids. His lips pucker, and she smirks.

When he recovers, he spits out a twisted seed and scowls. "Hell, Aeryn. You could have warned me."

She laughs, and suddenly, glances around her. "We should keep moving," she murmurs.

He nods to the stall's owner, and tosses the rest of the fruit to a giant chinchilla-thing sniffing at his feet.

_v. a peacock feather for bursting_

After an arn and a half of browsing and bargaining, they get their booze and their food sent on to the transport pod.

John's mouth is still tingling from the fruit, so they stop at the alien equivalent of a pub to get a drink, and maybe to eavesdrop, too.

They grab a table near the back, shadowed from the suns. Aeryn orders a drink that John's microbes can't translate, and when he asks her what it is, she tells him, tersely, it probably won't kill him.

He soothes his tongue with small sips of the liquid, and tries not to think about it.

The day is warm and the slightest bit humid, and the atonal clicks and jagged vowels of other languages wash over him, even as they're overlaid with a veneer of English. Despite the threat of the bounty, he feels languid, relaxed.

Aeryn's foot touches his under the table, and he reaches out to grab her drink, for no good reason at all. His fingers brush against the inside of her wrist, and her thumb twitches.

He leans forward, captures her gaze, but before he can ask her his question, something familiar flickers on the edge of his vision.

John turns his head, and at the bar, a hologram of Scorpius wavers.

John releases his hold of Aeryn's drink, and she drops a handful of coins on the table.

They're only barely out of the bar when they hear a shout. John grabs Aeryn's elbow, points her to an alley across the square. She starts to grumble, but there are more shouts, so she nods and takes the lead.

It's like something out of _Aladdin_, John wants to say, but that would just annoy her now.

_vi. a boy who is half swan_

They end up wedged behind a stack of crates next to the open square. The first sun is only just setting, and there's still a good amount of foot traffic littering across the sand and cobblestones. Off the center of the square, there's a musician, playing something that looks like a flute and an accordion had an illicit affair. It sounds like a coyote in a silent movie.

The crates are only partial shelter, and they're exposed on the side. Aeryn's shoulder presses into his chest, and his hands bracket her as they lean against the wall.

She smells sweet as she did before, and he edges closer to her. He feels awkward and large and fragile, and a loose tendril of her hair tickles under his chin.

Aeryn breathes deep, he can feel her ribs expand, and he can't help himself. He twists, infinitesimally, and touches his lips to her temple, to the line of her jaw.

She lifts her face, just enough, and their lips touch, then once again. He pulls away, wants to make a joke about adrenaline and Sandra Bullock, but then Aeryn snakes an arm around his neck and pulls him back down.

_vii. pulling other tractors_

"This isn't the time to frell," Chiana hisses, and they start and separate. Chiana's standing at the entrance to the alleyway, one of Zhaan's robes wrapped over her shoulders.

John blinks. "Pip, what--"

"Just come on." Chiana gestures urgently, looks over her shoulder. "D'Argo flew me down. A Marauder just landed outside the city."

John curses, and Aeryn stiffens against him.

Then they hear the shouting again, nearby, and they run.

_viii. and then you will come to a river_

Back on Moya, back in his quarters, John flops onto his bed and stares at the curve of the ceiling.

In his mind's eye, the hologram of Scorpius flickers again, and the image puts its hand on its hips. _Not even to second, John? How disappointing._

John grunts, waves the image away.

Until the next time.


End file.
